


a heavy heart in a heavy hand

by fantasycostco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Depression, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Feels, Secrets, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasycostco/pseuds/fantasycostco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They beat the alpha, they beat Peter. It is finally over. Lydia is getting better, Scott and Allison have gotten back together, Derek has been bonding with the pack, even started renovations on the house. Everything should be perfect. Should be great but... he can still feel him. Can still feel his hands, and his breath. "The bite is a gift."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in my dreams (i scream)

**Author's Note:**

> This will be multi-chapter. This first chapter is pretty short (and crummy, that's because I can't write). The story is also unbeta-d. All mistakes are mine.

  He can hear him whispering sometimes. Whispering all these horrible things into his ear. Its almost as if he's there. He can't stand the dark anymore, always leaves the light on. The dark isn't safe, it feels as though somethings in that room with him watching, just watching. He dreams. He dreams about the monster that hurt Lydia. Hurt him. Just at night, when he dreams. So he stops sleeping. He covers the circles under his eyes with makeup, Scott doesn't notice. He has Allison after all. Then he starts seeing him when he's not sleeping. Fleeting snatches of a monster with red eyes smiling at him. Then its not fleeting anymore. He can feel his heavy breath on his neck, and filthy hands touching him. He can't talk anymore, his throat always hurts because he's screamed too much.

  
   It's summer and he has too much time on his hands. Especially now that Scott has bonded with Dereks new puppies. Isaac, he thinks, who could say no to that curly haired cherub? Not that he's bitter. If Scott were to hang out with him he might start to notice that he's different. Tainted. Ugly. His eyelids scrape against his eyes as he shuts them. Shuts out the world. Shuts out himself.

  
  Now is not the time to think about it. Actually never is the time to think about it. Never never never.  
  

"You think you can escape from me Stiles? Like I'd ever let that happen." He whispers into his ear, words curling in the air like smoke from a cigarette. He can feel the phantom touch of rough fingers carressing his neck.

  
   He shivers, and opens his mouth to respond. "You don't have me trapped. Caged. Like some sort of small animal. Like some sort of...dog." He gets a low chuckle in return. Dark and full of promises.

  
  He turns to see but nobody is there. He's home alone.


	2. swimming in the river (i can't breathe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek plans a pack night. Stiles has a panic attack.

   Days pass and he has yet to even see Scott. True, he didn't spend much time out of the house but you'd think that your very own best friend would come and hang out. He doesn't even get any texts. Then again Scott is pretty much his only friend. So when he gets a text late on a hot thursday night he's surprised.

  Peter doesn't even look up from the book he's flipping through when he jumps. His eyes flick to Peter and back to his phone. He moves the chair farther away. Though wary to take his eyes off of him, he reads the message.

_From: Sourwolf_

_Meeting tomorrow. Your place. Pack will be there._

_Received 5:52 pm_

"I see that Derek is attempting to establish a bond between pack members. He'll grow stronger as an alpha that way." He jumps as the hot breath tickles his neck. Peter reads the text. He closes his eyes, not moving. When he opens his eyes, he's gone. He is not sure whether that is good or not. He replies quickly.

_To: Sourwolf_

_Sounds good. Bring some movies._

_Sent 5:59 pm_

He tosses his phone to his bed, sliding down the wall. His body sags, and he releases a breath. The shirt he is wearing rides up his back, bruises bloom like flowers in the spring. A rainbow of purples, greens, and yellows against pale skin. He pulls down his shirt, yanking it violently. Out of sight, out of mind. He's so tired, hasn't slept for more than an hour at a time. When he does...he dreams. Horrible things. Blood. Smooth hands like silk touching him. Screaming. He hears someone, distantly, their breaths quick and sharp. Stuttering. Who is that who is that-

  _Peter Hale stares at him with his red eyes, dark blood eyes.  His words are poison, and he offers him the bite. He offers him a gift. Grabbing his wrist he gently guides it to his mouth. His eyes ask the question, Do you want the bite? Will you accept my gift?  He says no._

_It was the worst mistake of his life._

 His eyes fling open and he is back in his room. Red eyes reflect in his window.

 "Not real not real," he murmurs softly under his breath. Turning his back he pretends not to see. Just as he opens his book there is a loud tap at the window. His left eye twitches.

 "Stiles, open the window." His head whips to the window, and his head aches. He jumps up and fumbles with the hook on his window. He moves back as Derek comes through the window. He rubs his eyes tiredly, looking at Derek. He looks healthy.

 "You weren't picking up your phone." He blinks. His phone? He snatches it off his bed, and double takes. It's five in the morning. What the fuck. It shouldn't even be midnight.

 His silence must have worried Derek because he shifts uncomfortably. Doesn't verbally ask him though, he notes testily.

 "What did you need?" He taps his foot against the floor. Derek shakes his head and starts to leave.

 "You didn't answer me!" He shouted after.

 "I'll see you later Stiles." What a stellar response from Derek "I'm the alpha" Hale. He slams the window shut and locks it. Spinning on his foot to only jump back as _he_ sits on his bed.

 "Come back to bed Stiles, it's a bit chilly without you."


	3. I'm so cold here (I fear I'll never feel again)

 He thinks of Lydia, the field. How Peter acted. He remembers throwing the Molotov cocktail. Watching the man who had, up to that point, hospitalized the girl of his dreams, bit his best friend, and had acted like a fucking pedophile. He thinks of Lydias screams as Peter tormented her, used her as a link to this world and as a ride back to the land of the living. He yearns for a time when it wasn't so dark, so hazy.

  _You denied me what I wanted, I had given you a choice. You will make a fine wolf._

Sometimes when he wakes in the morning there is a fleeting moment in which he forgets about everything, everyone (not everyone just a certain some _one_ ). He takes a breath and his heart doesn't hurt and then he remembers. He thinks that's the moment Peter enjoys the most out of this (because whatever this is, a hallucination or some freaky ghost thing it  _is_ Peter. In one form or another.) because he's sadistic.  He opens his eyes and the clock says 7 am. Surprise, he slept longer than a handful of hours.

  His phone goes off.  _Bzzz bzzz_ , it's annoying so he opens the text.

  _From: Scott_ _  
_

_cnt hang out b4 meeting, srry. allison & isaac want 2 c a movie_

_Received: 7:09 am_

"Scott ditched again for his  _girlfriend_  and his bestie. Awh, poor little red." There goes the morning. He can't even get a few minutes to himself when he wakes up. Not to mention his dreams. _Foul breath on his neck, hands trailing down his sides..._ But today is a brand new day, different time. Another day, another socially awkward situation and increased anxiety levels. Ahhh, so many pills to choose from. Adderall, Xanax, blah blah blah. He showers (ignores the fact that he wears his boxers, it's not weird) and dresses then goes around the house. He checks the doors and windows (locked - yes, no?), he double checks them and spends a large chunk of the day cleaning the house. Since his dad's been so busy at work due to almost all the officers being dead and all, no one has been really cleaning. Technically there wasn't much to clean, his dad didn't do much apart from sleep at the house and he mostly stuck to his room. By the time it's 2 pm he's nervously picking at his nails as he listens to some documentary on bats. 

 Peter is notably absent. He's not quite sure which is worse, Peter being there or not there. Both of those options make him uncomfortable, his skin crawls and his stomach churns. He doesn't feel safe in his own home, his sanctuary. How fucked up is that? The dishwashers cycle abruptly ends making him jump at the silence that engulfs the house. It reminds him of after his mom died, that adjustment period when he had to learn to live in a silent house with a father that was always working. To prove his point further Stiles knows his dad slept in his office last night because he can hear his car pulling in the driveway.

 "Stiles?" His dads voice carries.

 "In the kitchen, Dad!" He's drying the damp plate in his hand when his father's head pops in the doorway. He smiles at him.

 "Hey kiddo, dropped by for a quick shower. I have to work late tonight so make sure everyone is careful, alright?" His father seems happier now. Stiles is grateful that Derek took the initiative and dropped the bomb on his father when he was getting acquainted with the Argent's' basement. Truly a  _wonderful_ place to spend the night.

 "It's not like we're a pack of wild animals Dad." Rolling his eyes, his dad turned around and went to go shower. 

 "Just remember, no alcohol!" 

 

* * *

  It's just shy of 5 o' clock when he hears a key turn in the lock. His heart stops but when Scott emerges from the doorway he rolls his eyes, especially since everyone else followed Scott. That sounds like some sort of metaphor but it's not. If Scott were an alpha Stiles would lose all faith in everything. Not humanity because technically Scott isn't "human" (according to Lydia). Derek, looking good as always, is wearing his signature jacket even though it's nice out,  _figures_. 

 Everyone is talking to each other, a low hum of people and voices. Stiles goes to kitchen and orders pizza now that everyone is here, and since Mikey (one of three employees at the local pizza place) knows what he orders it's pretty quick. 

 Allison, Scott, and Isaac are all sitting on the couch, thighs touching. Erica and Boyd are sitting on the floor in front of them. Lydia and Jackson have taken his fathers chair, with Lydia sitting on the arm. Derek takes the other chair, Stiles stands. Derek has nothing much to say other than the usual "training on Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday. Meeting on Friday, no freaky monsters ( _yet_ )" so everyone moves on to the fun part where we watch movies and make comments. Erica chose the movie this week, he doesn't think this is a good idea. Turns out it's Easy A, a good choice for these dark times. It's getting to the part where Olive is angrily sewing A's onto her clothes when he gets thirsty. Everyone has had their fill of pizza so he takes their paper plates with him. He can distantly hear the movie as he turns on the sink and grabs a glass. 

 "Actually, her outfits aren't that bad."

 " _Duh_ , it's Emma Stone."

 He snickers to himself, and then accidentally trips into the counter bashing his rainbow of bruises. Sucking in a harsh breath he sets his cup on the table as he feels the pain of being hit by a ton of bricks. _  
_

 "Jesus Christ that hurts," he mutters. His shirt is wet too, having spilled half a cup of fucking ice cold water on it. "Dammit," he sucks in some air. His cup still has some water in it, a mouth full so he drinks it and turns around the put it in the sink. As he's turning around a set of hands grab him around the waist making him drop his cup and hiss in pain as they dig their cold fingers into his flesh. There is glass on the floor and teeth on his skin and he is somewhere else entirely now. His knees are cold and his arms are shaking under the extra weight. Harsh exhales on his neck. Moaning. Blood. He is bleeding.

 "Dude, you okay? What happened?" Scott has his puppy look glued to his face. Stiles can't bring himself to smile. He motions to the cup and the counter.

 "I hit the counter, dropped the cup." He sounds sheepish, and he isn't lying so his heart doesn't skip. Scott snorts, shakes his head. "Only you." He hears someone press play in the living room. Stiles waves off Scott. "I'll sweep it up real quick, go watch the movie. You know I've seen this only a thousand times." Scott and him say in unison, "Emma Stone." He watches as Scott settles back on the couch. 

 The cup is only in five pieces so he picks it up with his hands. The third piece he picks up is sharp, he almost cuts himself with it by accident. He studies it for a minute before setting it aside, hiding it in the bread holder. He throws away the other pieces. He goes back to the movie. Nobody says anything. Peter chuckles in the background, Stiles isn't quite sure why but he does know that he doesn't want to know the reason. Peters fingers brush his neck.

 Later that night after everyone has left he checks the bread holder for the piece of glass but it's gone. He triple checks all the doors and windows but they're all locked. Peter studies him before speaking.

 "Oh, little red, nobody but me is allowed to hurt you."

 Stiles cries himself to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is somewhat compliant to season 2. Scott joined Derek's pack. Boyd and Erica are alive and not kidnapped.


	4. get out of my head (get out of my house)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles isn't as normal as people seem to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! magic!Stiles anyone?

On the first day of kindergarten Stiles realizes he isn't like the other kids. It's not just because he is too loud, can't sit still, and already knows how to read and write, it's because the other kids don't have any idea what he's talking about when he suggests games to play. That's the first hint because no one knows what stiff as a board, light as a feather is. After that first day of school his mother crouches by his side and tells him to never talk about their games with anyone. Her face is pale and hints of stress emerge on her face. He nods and touches her cheek wishing for those hints to go away. They don’t go away until he’s old enough to know better than to even think of telling anyone.

 Now he is sixteen and has another secret to keep, to never talk about with anyone. He wishes for his mother everyday but he is worried that she'll just be ashamed of him too. Disappointed.

 She comes to him in a dream one night, it's a rare chance seeing how he tries not to sleep too much now. She doesn't look like the hospital version of herself - her hair is long and in curls, her skin glows healthily, and her eyes shine. Her hands are soft when she grabs his cheeks and looks him dead in the eyes.

  _Something is wrong Gen, not the normal wrong either baby. There is an imbalance in the universe._

 He can't stand to look her in the eyes and gently moves to hold her hands instead. Her cheeks are full with a light blush like they always used to be and he longs for the old days. The great days when they would play games and go to the library or play hide and seek in the woods for hours.

  _Gen, did someone force you into a bond?_

 He would always find her before an hour and she would look so pleased the faster he found her and the longer it took her to find him. That wasn't the only weird thing about the games she taught him. They would play tag sometimes in the woods as well and the look in her eyes when she told him to run frightened him at times.

  _Genim?_

 When dad had been at work they would play different games, ones that his mother learned from her mother and so on. She would have him float things, the heavier and the higher they were the happier she would look and sometimes she would blindfold him and make him smell different things until he could identify them one hundred percent of the time. Other games weren’t fun at all though, they would play kidnapper/kidnapped and she would tie him to a chair or lock him in places and have him escape. She said he was creative, so smart baby, so smart.

  _GENIM, did someone force you into a bond? Look at me and answer!_

He looks up, and he doesn't want to be here anymore, doesn't want to answer the question but he can feel something in his head flare and it makes him want to answer like when Derek uses his Alpha voice on his betas.

 He answers her, voice breathy. _Yes_.

 His mother doesn't move for a long time and she looks alarmed and frightened and angry all at once, it's an odd combination but it is no stranger to him. Kanimas, werewolves, hunters oh my! after all. He feels like he's going to be sick, his already million thoughts a second pace is suddenly too much, a million directions at once and he can't breathe.

  _calm down, baby. It's okay, we can fix it, the bond. It's unstable because whoever tried to form the bond forced it and it's hurting you but there is something more about it - it still feels wrong._

 Probably because he's dead, he thinks and by the expression on his mother’s face (angry, scared but suddenly it's more intense and terror comes into her eyes) she heard him think that.

  _oh shit, Gen, he's -_

 He is in his room now, it is dark. He can't see much and isn't that unusual, his head hurts and his mouth tastes like rust, like blood. He stumbles around the dark and makes it to the bathroom, switching the lights on, his nose is bleeding which is why his mouth tastes like blood. His hands are shaking as he rummages for the Advil somewhere in his bathroom and when he finds it he dry swallows three pills and shuffles back to bed.

 His room is not only dark but it's cold. Why is his room so fucking cold? He stumbles to the light switch and flinches as the brightness causes his head to pulse in pain. A breeze blows through his room and isn't that odd, his window is open. _His window is open_. He is one hundred percent sure he locked that door before he went to bed because he checked it about a thousand times.

 He makes his way to the window and shuts it, looking down at the door as he locks it he notices something about his fingers. There is dirt smudged on his hands and under his fingernails, it's dry and dark brown but how did it get there because he's been sleeping all night.

 He’s worried now, so very worried because shouldn’t he remember getting out of bed to plant a fucking garden or whatever _the hell_ it was his body was doing.

 He thinks back on his dream – which was not actually a dream, he knows the difference at this point in his weird life – and Peter _bonded_ with him. Okay, he tried to, a bond can’t be complete without both parties consent and he didn’t consent to what Peter did. His ribs twinge and he feels a bit sick at the thought of what Peter did to him on those occasions.

 “ _I’ll find a way to get what I want, darling.”_ He rears back when he turns around to find his window open, yet again, and Peter is there smiling at him. He hits a wall trying to back away from him.

  _“Don’t be like that Stiles.”_ He shakes his head and closes his eyes and sinks down to the floor. He tugs on his growing hair and screams into his legs so he doesn’t have to listen to him. He doesn’t want him here, why can’t he leave him alone.

 “ _The bond won’t let me do that, you and I both know this. Stiles, you’re smarter than that, don’t disappoint me.”_  He tries singing his favorite songs loud as he can and it helps, he can drown out lots of voices but he’s never been good at filtering out distractions, it’s the ADHD his doctor had explained and his mother had only smiled like she was indulging the doctor. She had always been so _secretive_ ; she was like Deaton on steroids. Peter is still there though, shaking his head and now he’s getting angry. His eyes flash.

  _“Now, now Stiles do quiet down. Don’t make me force you to. You know I hate that.”_ He immediately stops and lets his arms circle his legs. He casts his eyes down and gives a hitched apology. Maybe if he pleases him, Peter will go away.

“ _Look at me when we are talking.”_ He hisses, pure venom and his head snaps up and he nods. Please don’t hurt me again, it hurts so badly. Part of him wants to please Peter (emotionally) but the other part is unstable, warring with him because he was forced into this bond. Normal bond behavior will become warped, twisted and it’s not just mental problems. He read in one of his mother’s books that there will be physical reactions as well. Headaches, fevers, hallucinations, uncontrollable movement, memory loss, eventually it will lead to death if not rectified or broken.  

 “ _Don’t worry my dear, this will work out in the end. Just wait until you see what I have in store for you and Derek’s little pack.”_ Just like that Peter leans in and kisses him, and leaves. He freezes, doesn’t breathe or think, his skin is too tight and the world is spinning. What did he do to deserve this? He’s crying hysterically now and he knows that he should shut the window but that obviously doesn’t do anything because anyone can- mountain ash.

 Scrambling up he pulls opens his drawers and brings out an empty pill bottle full of mountain ash, he shakes it into his hand and wills it to keep out the werewolves, he doesn’t want any werewolves coming into his room through this window ever again and he feels when it works. He collapses on the floor in relief and it finally feels like the sun has finally broke through the clouds.

 He sleeps long and deep for the whole day after that, safe in his own room.

 


	5. he calls for me (and I dare not cry)

He is tired, so tired. The faded colors of the world make everything feel so _fake_. His mind is a jumble, going in circles until he is dizzy – unable to tell left from right. His bruises are a constant reminder of his sins... his own or _his_ \- he cannot be certain. He is angry, he cannot enter his room and he is so angry. _Let me in stiles_ , he calls through the door. _Don't you want to see me, darling?_ He knows, he always knows. He sees it all, his eyes are always watching, everywhere and nowhere. How pathetic an existence is his own. How far he has fallen. He wants to tear them apart, to make Derek watch as he tears at his little pack of _mutts_ with his teeth and claws. He wants to utterly destroy Derek for just looking at what is _his_ -

  No, no he doesn't want to destroy them. He wants to save them. If he can save them then maybe he can save himself. It is inevitable, the fall. It is a lie to think he can save himself even if he can save them. His mind is not his own. He is not a person anymore.

  The night chokes him, it consumes him and he is nothing. The shadows lengthen and wrap around him and laugh when he begs them to stop. He is not safe anywhere, _he_ isn't even in here and still he reaches into him and pulls him to pieces. All he does is _take take TAKE._

  He wants the safety in numbers that comes with being around pack. He wants the soothing sound of Polish to fall over him.. He wants to feel warm again, he wants to feel whole. He cannot be whole when the night consumes him so, when _he_ takes another part of him with every smile, every glance, every _touch_. Dawn is his only reprieve. The soft glow of light across the sleepy town bringing a new day is too pure for him. He is taint, he is poison. 

 The soft glow of daybreak settles over him, silences his mind and spirit. His mind wanders to Derek. He wonders what Derek is doing. He would think sleeping but he's pretty sure Derek doesn't sleep. He thinks about Derek's loft, about the house being built for everyone. He thinks about Derek and his small smiles and warm eyes (even when they bleed red they aren't like _his_ ). He thinks about finding Laura and finding Derek after that - how empty Derek had been of anything but misery, grief and anger; the way it clung to his very being, the corrupt taint of his emotions. Now it has faded. The anger has dissipated replaced by warmth, he is content. He is _healing_.

 Everyone is healing, the scars of battle are healing, they still exist for them to see but they are accepting of that. He isn't. At least, he assumes he isn't. He's never been one for accepting and healing any way. More like coping and ignoring. He can't ignore everything though. He wishes he was like Lydia; the initiative she took with her Peter Problem was admirable. It took her a month to stand up and banish him (she had laughed in the face of the Devil thinking she had outsmarted him, the Devil had only watched with dark eyes and blood in his teeth; his plans unfolding). Unfortunately that meant he, Stiles, now had his own Peter Problem (the Devil had sunk his teeth into his delicate underbelly and forced him into eternal servitude).

 He thinks about his mother, about what she told him in his dream. He thinks about her melodic voice whispering to the world in Polish, fondly telling him tales of his ancestors. His mother would have handled this better. His mother had always been calm even in the face of certain doom. He thinks of Poland in these moments. His mother and Poland exist in the same part of his heart. She had missed Poland, he had too (they didn’t talk about it, how Poland had always been their home).

 He remembers coming to America, the incredible difference between the two places. His father had loved it; he had been born in California to two immigrants but had gone to Poland with his mother in order to bury his father (whose only request was that he be buried where he was born). That's how his father had met his mother, Claudia. He was born two years later and they stayed in Poland until his grandmother had died.

 He misses his mother. She would know what to do. She was always teaching him new things, always pushing a book in his hands. _These are part of my personal library, Gen, so take care of them for me_. He remembers his father packing away every part of his mother, every proof of her existence in their world, and hiding it in the attic (he felt as though he went with her past the eyes of this world and into the unseeing eyes of Death).

The emptiness is back now, apathy embraces him and he allows it. He wants this moment of daybreak to break everything around him. He wants to stop hearing his own screams, he wants to stop tasting his own blood. That is only a small part of him though, the part that Peter had seen, and cultivated (the part that had called to him, two monsters that saw each other for what they were).

 The bond, his mother had cried. She said there was an _imbalance in the universe_.

              Whatever.

 He wants to make Peter crawl out of his unmarked grave and into the arms of Death. He wants to hear him scream like he had made him scream. He wants him to _bleed_. The blood in his veins sings at the thought of Peter begging for him to stop, _please stop_. He doesn’t think this is normal, not for him not for normal people.

 He has never been normal even _before_ (there are three parts to his life; before, _before_ and, of course, **after** ). The only constant in these three acts is the need for answers; his mother had told him enough to know what to look for and now here he was – waiting for a sign.

 He watches his mothers glittering eyes and heartfelt smile, one of the only pictures left of her in the house except for the ones in the attic. The attic that was a mausoleum made of his mothers belongings… including her _books_. He let his fingertips caress the photograph, _thanks mom_.

 The climb to the attic was torturous; thoughts of his mother haunted him. He could almost feel her urging him along, his body moving faster and faster as he thought of his possible freedom from the Devil of Beacon Hills. A world without the corrupt taint that _he_ brought with him; he almost could not believe the very thought, it seemed impossible even now. The darkness of the attic was fitting for such a cluttered, dusty room. No one had come up here in years. He brushed his hands along boxes and shelves hoping for even a piece of his mother to shine through. She was dead though and unlike _him_ she would not be coming back.

 He bent down to study a bookshelf crammed in the very farthest part of the attic. Every book was old – older than dirt and they were all about the supernatural from magical warding to werewolf etiquette. He thumbed through a couple of books he wasn’t sure about and pulled out a couple of books on bonding and the effects on humans and creatures. Ideal for him and his fucked up _everything_ apparently. He started to stand when his hand lost its grip and caused him to smash into the attic floor.

 “Son of a bitch!” He cried, angrily clutching his hand he made to stand up when a book caught his eye. Unlike the others this one was obviously bound by hand and it was written in _polish_. There was no title and he could feel magic thrumming from the book, familiar magic. He snagged the book and vowed to check it out after finding more about his very own hellish situation.

 A glance at the clock told him he would have to leave soon so he could get dinner with his dad at the diner (that had once been his mothers’ favorite). He carefully entered his room eyeing the lines of mountain ash and opened his closet. His closet was the ideal place to hide his mothers’ books and with a softly spoken warding spell (one of the few legitimate spells he knew) he was ready to leave. He dressed quickly and left before worrying any more about _him_.

He was tired of worrying about _him_ at the moment (he knew it would bite him in the ass later, it always did, Murphy’s Law). He pretended not to hear his calls from within the house, pretended not to feel his eyes on him, pretended like he didn’t have to vomit but it was hard. Those books were the only thing keeping him going, they were his hope for freedom from this hell, they were his redemption, his blank slate.

 And Peter could never take that from him, this inner ferocity. Peter was a wolf but he was a _fox_. The smile on Peters face was full of promises and pain as he drove the jeep to the diner.

_You will not win this,_ he whispered as his fingers ghosted across his skin, _because I will never give up, I will always be with you, **always**_.


	6. I see a bad moon rising (I see trouble on the way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a bad moon on the rise.

_Have you fallen with us, little fox?_

The shadows call to him, beckon him. They reach out and wrap around him, carress his skin. They are like stray dogs around him. The velvety night is like a blanket. They see a reflection of themselves within him. He is not the light. The forest welcomes him like a long lost child. The ravens follow him, their caws reverberate within his chest. 

It is here that he has been coming every night, his own subconscious trying to seek refuge, to fix the irreparable damage done by him.  
Nobody goes this far into the forest, not even the wolves. Yet, here he is.

_Curious_ , he think as he approaches his destination, _is it a monstrous stump of a tree or is it a monstrous tree that looks like a stump?_ The air is different in this spot, heavy and dark. He can practically feel the air; grasp it with his pale hands. He walks around the tree (or is it taking the guise of a tree?) and tests the way the density of the magic changes. There is no doubt that the tree is the conduit. 

_Curiouser_ , he remarks as he steps closer to the tree. There are signs of someone digging; the fresh soil looked like ominous mounds. Not digging but _burying_ , his mind supplies. He thinks of the dirt trapped under his nails, the dried blood stuck to his hands and arms, and suddenly all is not-good, well, considering everything over all it takes the cake of not-good. He is willing to admit it transcends into more of a very-bad. He’s gracious like that. He bemoans that it’s always him that’s stuck with the shittiest of shit situations _especially_ considering there are probably dead bodies under those suspicious mounds in front of the magic tree in the part of the forest nobody likes to go into. Luckily, he brought gloves with him (don’t judge, it was just in case and well, look at that, he needed them so take that Scott “You Are Never Going to Use Those, Ever” McCall). Unluckily, there are probably going to be dead bodies involved and dead bodies almost always mean some freaky supernatural asshole wants more dead bodies (or, as he likes to call it, every single fucking day of his life).

The tree is rather intoxicating, he’s afraid to think of the implications of how he knew where to find the dead bodies that are probably right in front of him but the main point is that the tree is like a giant lamp and everyone else are moths. It’s odd, the area around the tree is absolutely clear. There are no plants - not even grass growing around the tree, there are no animals nearby – the silence is almost as heavy as the air, there is nothing around the tree in a giant circle. 

His fingers finally feel something other than dirt, something big. He quickly starts moving dirt around, he feels distant – he feels like he is chained to a rock in the sea, left drifting with only his thoughts and the vultures to peck away at his being. It is a different feeling than the other kind of distant he has grown used to. He comes back to himself, out of his trance, to find three dead bodies laid before him in the dirt. Two of them have started rotting, the sickly sweet smell makes his stomach twist, but one looks fresh. Incredibly fresh, perhaps she was just sleeping kind of fresh. Her long brown hair was like roots. They were all buried with care; someone had felt truly sorry about their loss. 

He sat there, crouched on his legs in front of three dead girls no more than twenty years old at the most, for a long time. There was nothing he could do for them, no reason he could find in their deaths. They just…were. He took his gloves off carefully tucked them into his bag and collapsed into the dirt. He laid there, part of this morbid landscape of life and death for an even longer time. The sun rose in the sky and he couldn’t bear to drag himself away from these lost girls. He felt like one of them – an empty vessel carefully tucked away, buried deep in the soil to become part of the forest. He had no tears, no great sobs, just this…just nothing. 

His father would get home soon, he had to pick up Scott in a handful of hours, and _he_ would be there. He waits for him at night, whispers of fire and ash. All Stiles can grasp for is the shadows, the caw of the ravens (like Odin’s two birds, Memory and Thought, they tell him all, show him all, they are him and he is them), and the damp soil of the woods. He rises from his bed of dirt, his grave, and pulls his gloves back on. Each handful of dirt is sprinkled over the girls; gently he tucks them back into their final resting spots, and says nothing. He does not know what to do now. 

He makes it home before his father, just passes by Peter with not even a pause, and takes an hour long shower. He breaks the lines of mountain ash around his room and sits with his head in his hands until Scott calls so he can pick him up for a BBQ at Derek’s. 

He smiles, and laughs, and _screamsscreamsscreams_ inside. It’s just another Tuesday.

Derek is nice though, he laughs at a lame joke he makes about pigs and tells him to get more sleep (you look dead on your feet, Stiles) (he feels dead). Scott drags him to the couch and Allison puts her feet in his lap, head in Scotts, and they watch Jaws. Lydia argues with Danny and Jackson about sharks, Erica and Boyd hog the popcorn bowl and Isaac hovers in his peripheral. Derek is warm, sitting right next to him on the end of the couch. All he can think of is the green of his eyes is nothing like the leaves on the trees, his smile isn’t sharp, isn’t the smile of a viper like Peters. 

The dead girls hang onto him, even as they eat dinner. He imagines the girl with hair like tree roots sitting amongst them; he got the feeling that she was more of a mix between Erica and Allison. He thinks he would have liked her. They had all seemed so small, arms crossed and bodies gently put in the hand dug mounds. He feels small too, feels like he’s being buried alive. As the sun sets he lets Derek lead him back inside the house, the shadows cry and the wind whispers for him to come back but Derek is warm and his hands are gentle with him. He follows him back inside with everyone else and lets himself feel safe for a few hours. 

By the time everyone has headed to bed, sequestered in their rooms, he is wide awake. He thinks. That is who he is, Stiles the Thinker, Stiles the Worrier, Stiles the Murderer?  
He holds his hands up and studies them, inspects them for any hint of blood, any hint of death. There is nothing, of course. If he was going to commit a crime, especially murder, he was smart enough to wipe away any evidence that would lead to him getting caught. This line of thought, though normal, only made him worry more about those girls. Did they have families? Why them? Why him? Just, why? Why about a lot of things in general?

He gets up, too upset to sleep, and stumbles to the kitchen and sits at the table. There is no moon out from what he can see. There is no Peter either, probably scared at the prospect of a banshee nearby. Or too weak to force his way into the forefront of his mind – he’d spent the last week screaming bloody murder outside his door, had made up for the denied access to his room in other ways like following him everywhere else he went, day in, day out. He’d taken to whispering what he was planning on doing to him once he was strong enough.

It’d been worth it to have his room back. The whispering he could manage. Having his room gave him freedom to work on fixing whatever _this_ was. He’d only read through a couple of books and so far only had a vague idea of what was happening. His headaches had been increasing and he was prone to nosebleeds now but not as bad as the more advanced stages. The books, from what he’d read, had basically said he should be dead by this point if this were the typical situation. Apparently, he couldn’t even be dying from magic bond voodoo bullshit normally. How typical. 

He’s broken from his thoughts at the sound of someone walking into the kitchen. Derek stands in front of him, eyebrows unsettled. He sits down and the clock continues to mark the seconds ticking by.

“Not sleeping well?” Derek asks, voice rough.

“Not sleeping is more like it,” he reflects and Derek looks at his hands clasped together on top of the table.

“Is something wrong? Should we be worried?” Derek can’t bring himself to look away from his hands.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so at least. Hey, do you know anything about magic trees?” He’s willing to take a chance and see if Derek knows anything, he’s the only one to have grown up with this sort of thing. Derek takes on a thoughtful expression.

“I don’t know much off the top of my head but probably enough to satisfy your curiosity for now. Magic trees are typically old, very old actually. They are like a conduit for the magic of the forest; the amount of magic depends on the age of the woods but usually it’s not an extreme amount of magic. It’s just ambient magic that supports the wildlife. Some magic trees get magic from elsewhere – there are rituals and sacrifices meant to honor the tree, feed off of belief – the trees are not just trees. They are the spirits, the very forest itself. At least, that’s what my mother used to say,” He trails off, quiet. 

“Rituals? Sacrifices?” Derek seems alarmed by his route of questioning. Frankly, he understands. 

“I just get the feeling something bad is going to happen, something about the woods has seemed off lately.” He shrugs and Derek looks quelled. He nods and stands up.

“Isaac mentioned something along those lines to me the other day, so did Boyd a couple weeks back. The forest is changing. That’s something to worry about at a later point though, something like this happened about a decade ago and it had something to do with the influx of supernatural beings in the area, changing of hierarchy.”  
A heavy feeling settles deep in his gut. Three dead girls smile at him from the dampened earth. He feels Peters laughter deep within him. 

_Something like that_ , he calls. _Do you remember what happened about a decade ago, little red?_

Yes, he thinks privately. Almost exactly a decade ago is when his mother, father, and himself moved to Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of chapter is from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.


	7. in the light of day (i hear your voice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I took a look at this chapter and realized I posted the wrong version - months late, I know I know. This version is meatier and rewritten on certain parts. I thought this one was more fleshed out for what I had in mind.

 Allison Argent was a remarkable girl that was how Scott saw it at least. Stiles knew different. Allison Argent was a monster of a girl; she did not need claws or acrobatics because she had knives and arrows. Allison was a worker, when she put her mind to something she did not hesitate to put her boots on and get to work. Stiles admired that about her. He also knew that these traits could go either way, he remembered how she let her rage consume her; temper her into a blade - an instrument she used to hurt others. The others forgot about this, forgot that she was no longer brimming with fire under her skin. Stiles was a people person, he was good at seeing rather than just looking at a person. His parents were the same way but his mother, there was just something about her that made her _know_ a person when she saw them. Stiles often wondered what she'd see if she looked at Allison.

 It was lunch, just an ordinary Saturday, everyone gathered together at the half constructed house in the woods. Last week had been a gathering at the loft. Derek is smiling today, it must be a good day. Everyone is smiling; everyone must be having a Good Day. He is staring at the woods, at the dark trees and they all seem to glimmer with dripping blood. There are four girls now, he thinks. Four Four Four Four Four Fou-

 "Hamburger or hotdog?" Isaac is in front of him, he has a little notepad in his hands writing down what everyone wants so Derek can make it. Stiles hates eating, it tastes like biting into dirt ( _moist dirt and grass and blood in his mouth_ ) but he tells him hotdog. Scott and Derek are standing together, facing the future Hale house, and talking in whispers. It'd been this way ever since the kanima, two stubborn assholes putting aside their pissing contest and united against a common cause (hurrah!). He likes to think that it was him who brought the two together, after holding Derek up for hours on end in a pool he became more inclined to actually listen to his completely sound and sensible logic. After Allison's "incident" (whatever the fuck the others are calling it, he calls it a mental breakdown, nobody listens to him anyway) Scott was more open to suggestions of what to do.

  He spots Erica and Boyd chatting with Isaac and Allison, Lydia and Jackson are arguing on one of the blankets on the grass. Isaac has left the notepad on the blanket and Stiles goes back to watching the woods. The blood on the trees was like water falling down in big fat drops from the top to the roots.

  _Stiles_ , a voice breathes into his ear, _what big eyes you have_.

 The girl with the hair like roots is standing under a tree. She is staring at him, she is not mad at him, she is not scared of him either. She points into the woods and then back at him, she does not speak but she turns her head to study the dark forest. She disappears. He's not sure what the fuck just happened (this one is still in the realm of not-good to very-bad).

 Derek and Scott join the rest of them, and the grocery group goes to the store. See you later, he thinks, as he watched Lydia, Isaac, and Erica leave. Allison moves over to stand next to Scott, she smiles. Her eyes say different, they glimmer with something else. Jackson and Boyd are with Derek, they're discussing some sort of move they didn't understand in training. Scott makes his way over to him.

 "You okay, dude? You're so quiet lately." He blinks and gets up.

 "I've just been really tired, and all that summer work that the new Lit teacher assigned needs to get done."

 Scott smiles at him and they talk about the most recent movie he'd seen, Allison stands next to him. She watches, but this time there is steel in her eyes as she looks at him.

  _Shall I rip those eyes out of her skull for you, darling boy? Or is it the smile that you'd prefer to see gone?_

 When the grocery group comes back they call for help and Scott leaves them to haul them over to the picnic area. Allison stares at him, she is not sporting her usual smile. There is an uncomfortable silence (for once in his life he is not trying to fill it up) as she studies him.

 "I told my dad that he should train you," she announces. He balks (this is not not-good, but it is also not not-bad).

 "You look like you are fighting a losing battle, I don't know against what or who and since you won't talk about it...I really think that this will help you."

 Allison may not be a remarkable person to him but she was a remarkable friend - that is when she wasn't having mental breakdowns and shooting at them with her bow of terror and doom. She had always understood a lot about him, had understood what the lack of meaning behind his words meant for the most part. Her eyes though, her eyes reminded him of Peter. They made him shiver, made him small, they pierced him. He understood her, more than Scott. While what she felt for Scott was real everything else she felt was a mere echo. That sharpness in her eyes spoke volumes.

 "What did he say?" He asked after a lengthy pause. She smiled, a different smile. Her eyes did not change.

 "Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 3pm to 7pm. Our place." She tossed him a wave as she went to chop vegetables for the salad. He trailed after her and, for the first time in a long while, he joined them. Pack bonds could do wonder for the soul, he thought.

 Everybody was laughing at something Lydia had said but Derek - Derek was too busy watching him. His face was turned towards the group that had circled up but his eyes were focused on him. His heart stuttered and he turned away from the intensity of those summer-green eyes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

 That night he dreamt about the tree again. It was tall, taller than any tree he'd seen before. Its roots were covered in blood and there was a face on the tree. It opened its eyes and it smiled at him.

  _My child, my little bird_ , it whispered. _You must use what is inside you if you are to win your battles_ , _and these battles will be many_.

 Then, slowly, the face started to weep. Blood trailed down from its eyes like tears. After that there was nothing but the void and whispers that blew a gentle breeze across his face.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

He woke to the soft light of the lamp on his desk, he was bent over one of his mother’s books. So far none of the books had any information that he could use to break the bond or at least seal parts of it away. There was no wolf tonight, no screaming outside of his door. He was waiting, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He had left him alone for the most part these past few days, he didn't know whether to be grateful or incredibly paranoid. Soon things were going to get worse, he could feel it in the heaviness of his bones. His magic curled around his skin, he could hear it humming in the air. The shadows stirred and stretched out while the wind howled his name in the night.

 He was tired and his father had been taking too many shifts lately. He felt as though he hadn’t seen him in years. He felt as though he hadn’t seen anyone in years. Sometimes he thought he was dead – that Peter had let him bleed out deep in the woods and he was only living out a dying dream conjured by his mind to cope with the splitting apart of his world. But the summer-green. The summer-green has never been in that world.

He closed the book gently and slid it in one of the drawers away from prying eyes. He looked at his pin board above his desk, his drawings were pinned up along with scribbled notes about them. The images haunted him; blackened rivers on the twisted tree, the frozen faces of four beautiful girls, and the five graves – one empty. The dreams had been growing sharper each day, they had followed him into the daylight hours. The voices had followed him, the world was reaching out to him and still he _saw_.

From the books he had been reading the magic from the bond could change aspects of the magical talents that the bonded possessed. Bonding could tap into potential that had yet to be made known and blow it wide open. In all the documented cases of this happening the abilities severely overwhelmed the individual and only the bondmate as well as serious meditation and training was able to balance the magics. Unfortunately for himself both of those things were not exactly the best options for helping him.

  _I guess we’re back to square one on the bond issue then_ , he pondered. Normally his research skillz™ were better than this but he’ll allow this one instance of weakness. Just for once, then he’ll destroy it.

The other issue was his Argent issue. The biggest pro of spending any time around an Argent was gaining any ability to drag Peters undead ass where it belongs. He can feel the rattling in his bones, the singing in his veins as his very blood calls out for the wrongs to be made right. He only feels a little bad about how happy he feels at the thought of slaughtering another living being, but then he remembers it’s _him_ he’s talking about and gets over it. All for the good of everyone (and him, mostly him, maybe a little bit of everyone too).

At the same time he can still feel the handful of dirt in his hands, can still smell that sicklysweetcorpsesmell, can still see those girls (arms folded, clothing tucked around them, flowers left on their bodies) and all he can feel is sadsadsadsadsademptysadempty. If it was his hands that were capable of such meaningless destruction then what would happen if an Argent trained him to be capable of _so much more_?

His final issue was on the magic murder tree in the woods. The magic murder tree that was the main star in almost all of his dreams. The magic murder tree that he sometimes, somehow, ended up in front of in the _dead of night_. He had typed in a few phrases into Google (“magical murder trees”, “trees that like dead people and magic”, “magic tree possession”, and “magic conduit tree”) but most of them turned up nothing. The most promising route of research had been in Celtic mythology when it came to trees and their magical properties but he still needed to keep rifling through all the garbage on the internet to find what was true and what was a lie some dude found on runescape and thought was “fo’ realz”.

At least he could say his summer was more interesting than almost all of his classmates. Scott not included ( I mean, when have the existence of werewolves ever been fair to himself? You get bit and suddenly you’re a smokin’ hot acrobat that can kick your ass seven ways to Sunday). Stiles generally tried to rule in his impulsivity, which was no small task, but for now he was willing to not think too much on the Argent deal. Or try not to think about how Allison was benefitting from the whole thing. Or how Allison was going to seek repayment in the end.

_My darling, an Argent is only useful when dead. Surely I do not have to remind you of what they are capable of, though of course they cannot compare to myself in that category. I am, after all, only worried about you. The thought of anyone, especially Argent, touching what is **mine** – well, perhaps I shall have to show you again how it makes me feel?_

The devil was back, come to play, all of his strength gathered together after his last outburst at the warding and mountain ash. Stiles shivered as the chill settled back in, the dense fog battling his current clarity. He knew that was how Peter wanted him to be, at least until he had assumed enough control and power over him. The bond fluctuated wildly, the magic in a frenzy of attack or attract, it pounded in his head to listen to his bondmate and to destroy the assumer, the one that was poisoning his mind and heart. It was all very not-good. It was more of very-extremely-bad.

 Perhaps the pounding in his head would stop soon enough for him to make _him_ go away. Stiles settled for a clear but distant state of existence. The world was slowing and spinning and laughing at him, or maybe that was the devil lying on his sheets. There were hands grabbing him, cold fingers like corpses caressing and leading him to his bed.

_It’s been so long since I’ve seen you little red, I’ve gotten lonely without that smart mouth of yours around._

He closed his eyes and reached for fireashburningcracklingwood and heatheatheat. Is this what it felt like, Peter, when you laid there burning and listening to those around you scream and cry for help? Is this what it felt like to be burnt alive?


End file.
